Those People at the End of the Drive
by Lydia Hunter
Summary: Hyacinth finally meets her match when she rents an historic gatehouse for the summer. KEEPING UP APPEARANCES, TO THE MANOR BORN crossover. Status: on hiatus
1. Dinner at the Manor

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**TH0SE PEOPLE AT THE END OF THE DRIVE**

by Lydia Hunter

**Author's Note:** _This story takes place in the current day (say, circa 2001), which means it's been six or seven years since the end of "Keeping Up Appearances" and about twenty years since the end of "To the Manor Born". And just for the record, all character names _**are**_ spelled correctly._

_ I always had the intention of finishing this story that got so rudely interrupted for reasons which are unlikely to be made clear. However after the airing of the 2007 To the Manor Born Christmas special, I'm no longer sure there's any reason to do so. Many key plot points in this story directly contradict the special, and there's no possible way of making it match up without significant__ rewrites.  
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**Part One of Three: Dinner at the Manor**

"Not there, dear, you know I like to sit by the window."

Elizabeth Warden jumped as if she'd been shot and without a word inched around to the other side of the breakfast table. Only after she was seated did she reach out and slide her mug of coffee towards her with exaggerated care. If only there was some sort of consistency in Hyacinth's rules! Sometimes Elizabeth was ushered into the seat she'd just left, other times merely approaching the chair was enough to earn her the gentle rebuke, "Not there, dear, I like to sit by the window." She and Hyacinth had been next-door neighbours for many years now, and the same scene was repeated every time she was summoned for coffee – in other words, almost every morning. With a slightly shaky hand she reached for one of the freshly baked pastries Hyacinth had placed on the table, thankful that they weren't so likely to crumble as the more usual biscuits. Unfortunately for her that was precisely the moment her neighbour turned from her ministrations with the tray and Liz, panicked, dropped the pastry on the table.

Hyacinth gave a long-suffering sigh as she regarded her idea of a small disaster. Really, Elizabeth _would_ be so clumsy! "Do try to be a little bit careful of the crumbs, Elizabeth, dear," she scolded. She quickly cleaned up the few crumbs with a cloth and then lowered her ample form into the chair in front of the window.

"So sorry, Hyacinth," breathed Elizabeth. "I don't know what comes over me sometimes, honestly. I never drop things anywhere else." Her hostess looked doubtful. In a quick attempt to change the subject Liz prompted, "You wanted to tell me about your holiday plans?"

Hyacinth's disapproving expression changed immediately. Her round face was suddenly wreathed in smiles, her eyes sparkled with the holy glow of self-improvement, and her voice went up an entire octave. From her pocket she produced a thick white envelope, bearing some sort of embossed crest Liz couldn't quite make out.

"Grantleigh Manor Lodge," she said reverently. "Doesn't that sound positively _regal?_ It's the gatehouse of an historic estate in Somerset, and we shall be staying there for several weeks. I've just had the most _charming_ letter in this morning's post from the people who own the estate. A couple named DeVere apparently – a very old-world, aristocratic sort of surname, just the sort of thing you'd expect from genuine landed aristocracy. Not a titled family, but of course you know how I disapprove of snobbery. Listen to this, Elizabeth: 'Our family has lived on the Grantleigh estate for more than four hundred years.' Not one of those places that's been sold off to Arabs or Americans or been subdivided into flats so tiny one can hardly turn around."

"Yes, I remember," said Elizabeth. "I mean ... well, it sounds wonderful, Hyacinth. Just the thing for several weeks' holiday." _Several weeks,_ she thought gratefully. And Somerset was so wonderfully far away.

The other woman ignored her, caught up in her own reveries. "That very nice vicar we met at the inter-church charity bazaar told me about it. He had that parish for years, and said that he thought Mrs. DeVere and I have _so_ much in common we could be practically twins. Isn't that wonderful? It's always such a relief to meet someone who is capable of appreciating my breeding and refinement. Obviously the DeVeres will, of course – like calls to like, you know. Why, I shouldn't be at all surprised to find ourselves spending _next_ summer as guests at the manor itself. I feel _instinctively_ that we shall be very good friends."

* * *

It was a lovely summer afternoon, late June at its finest. Marjory Frobisher, on her way home from a Women's Institute meeting at the church, decided to take a roundabout way and drop in on her oldest friend. She found Audrey, not at home at Grantleigh Manor as she'd expected, but in the garden of the old lodge, inexpertly wielding a pitchfork.

"Hullo, Aud," she greeted her. "What are you doing back at the old digs?"

Audrey DeVere straightened and gave Marjory one of her patented stern looks. She didn't care to think about the bleak time in her life, now two decades in the past, when she had actually lived in the lodge herself for a few years after the death of her husband had forced to sell her ancestral home. Those dark years were one of a number of subjects Audrey was permitted to bring up, but Marjory wasn't. 

The two women had been friends for more than sixty years and came from similar backgrounds – old, aristocratic families with more heritage than money – but that's where the similarity ended. 

There was simply _more_ of Audrey in every respect. Where Marjory was of average height with a scrawny figure a supermodel might reasonably envy, Audrey was more sturdily built, in keeping with her very tall frame. Likewise her features were more sharply defined, with a jutting nose and a determined chin. Marjory, on the other hand, had dainty, if rather amorphous features, topped with a pair of oversized, perpetually staring blue eyes. Everything about her seemed designed to illustrate the term "spinster". Even their personalities were diametrically opposed, although that was the main factor behind their lifelong friendship. It was a perfect symbiotic relationship: Audrey was a born leader, Marjory a born sycophant. She seldom had any real objections when Audrey rode roughshod over her, as she always had. 

"Don't be vulgar, Marjory. I am waiting for the new tenants to arrive, as you should know perfectly well."

"Oh, golly, is that today? Is that why you're so dressed up?" her friend teased, remarking on Audrey's costume of simple white sweater and blue sleeveless jacket, with a pair of dark green slacks tucked into the tops of Wellington boots.

"In a manner of speaking. I've spent half the morning in the woods trying to track down the groundskeeper. I told him last week that this garden needed to be in tip-top shape by the time the new people arrive, and now look at it."

Marjory looked. The patch of garden at the side of the Lodge was, as usual, overgrown but generally pleasant to look at. "It looks the same as it always has," she made the mistake of saying. Then, correcting herself quickly, she stammered, "Except, of course, for all the work you've done on it. Quite a marvellous job, really. What does the inside look like after all these years of standing empty?"

Audrey led the way inside, leaning the pitchfork against the wall as she opened the porch door. "I've had a cleaning crew in, of course, and the furniture should be more than serviceable. It's the stuff we pulled out of the manor last time we redecorated the drawing room."

"That was in 1988," Marjory reminded her. As she stepped up to the door a small bundle of golden-brown fur uncoiled itself from its sleeping spot and made a beeline for her ankle. With the ease of years of practice, she avoided the dog's bite and followed Audrey into the drawing room.

"Was it really? Good heavens, how time flies. Anyway, this furniture hasn't been _used_ in all these years; it's as pristine as the day it was moved in. I doubt Coventry people can spot the difference, frankly."

Miss Frobisher was wise enough not to point out that in fact the room looked far less shabby than it had the last time the lodge was occupied. "Oh, it's lovely, Audrey," she said, genuinely impressed. "Who are these people who are renting the place?"

Audrey pursed her lips. "Well, the name is _spelled_ Bucket, but when I spoke to the woman on the telephone she insisted upon pronouncing it 'Bouquet'."

"'Bouquet'?" Marjory repeated, puzzled. "I've never heard of that. Are they French, do you suppose?"

"A retired couple from the Midlands, apparently. Probably social climbers. I can't understand trying to transform a fine old sensible English name like Bucket into a garland of flowers."

"It _is_ a rather unfortunate sort of name," her friend reminded her.

"Maybe so, but it's nothing to be ashamed of. People who change their names have something to hide," pronounced Audrey dogmatically.

Marjory grinned. "Like Richard?" she asked with amusement. "If he hadn't changed his name you'd be known as Audrey Polouvicka today."

"That's quite a different matter entirely," the other woman responded archly. "Besides, you haven't spoken to the woman. I have. She sounds like one of those strident-voiced Englishwomen who give the rest of us a bad reputation. You know the type."

"Oh, yes. Quite well," Marjory answered, suppressing a smile. "But if you're so down on these people why are you letting them stay here? For that matter, I don't understand why you're bothering to rent out the lodge at all."

"For the money, of course, Marjory. This is a time of economic crisis for Britain's farming communities. Richard thinks we should be doing everything we can to encourage tourism."

Marjory was immediately concerned. "Oh, Audrey. I had no idea the estate was that far in the red." 

"Well it isn't, so far, but a little ahead of time economizing won't hurt anything. I found that out the hard way after Marton died; I've been poor and I didn't like it. I've no intention of standing idly by and letting things get so bad that Richard and I have to sell up and spend our declining years in this flea hut."

"I hardly think that's likely to happen," her friend began soothingly.

Marjory was more or less right in her assumption that Audrey was simply indulging her love of melodrama, but the situation was rather more complicated than that. Although the Grantleigh estate had been far luckier than some others, it hadn't managed to escape Britain's current farm crisis unscathed. They'd fortunately never ventured into beef production beyond the needs of the estate itself, and the small herd of cattle they did keep had escaped the outbreak of foot and mouth disease. Still, with a dismal economic climate and a flat market for the goods they did produce, the estate had been showing alarming signs the last few years of backsliding into the sort of non-profitability which had plagued it throughout the sixties and seventies. The DeVeres were still a very wealthy couple, but neither one cared for the idea of having to live on their capital. Audrey's husband, ever the businessman, had at once started coming up with contingency plans to generate income. The idea of renting out the old lodge as a country hideaway and encouraging tourism in the area was one of the more immediately feasible.

The sound of a car pulling up outside distracted them. From the direction of the front door, a familiar low growl broke out. "Hellooo!" The voice that hailed them was every bit as strident and piercing as Audrey had said.

"There's Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name-Is now," Audrey sighed. She headed for the door, Marjory at her heels.

Hyacinth stepped regally into the vestibule and gasped with pleasure. "Oh, Richard! Aren't these gothic arched windows absolutely wonderful?"

Her husband, struggling with three rather heavy suitcases, nodded patiently. "Yes, dear," he agreed. "Just as wonderful as when we stopped to admire them from the outside."

"There's just something incomparable about lovely old classic architecture," she sighed. "These old houses have an air of gentility our little modern matchboxes simply can't measure up – Aawk!" The front door opened and furious yapping erupted, seemingly from all over. Hyacinth, certain she was being attacked by several large, vicious dogs, fell ungracefully against the gothic windows she so admired.

"Bad dog!" Audrey scolded, scooping up the furious ball of fluff before he could do any more damage. The barking stopped immediately. 

"Oh, dear, I'm terribly sorry about that," apologised the utterly blameless Marjory. "I don't know why he behaves so badly. Are you quite all right, Mrs. Bucket?"

"It's ... Bouquet," Hyacinth corrected weakly. She hauled herself upright, adjusting her hat and trying to recover her composure. She offered her hand to Marjory. "Such a pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs. DeVere."

Marjory gulped and stood staring at Hyacinth, too surprised to correct the mistake. Audrey bristled. She said, in a somewhat acidic tone, "Really, Marjory. I thought you'd long since recovered from that little fantasy." Extending the hand that wasn't holding the Corgi, she said simply, "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bouquet; I'm Audrey DeVere, and this is my friend Miss Frobisher."

A variety of emotions flickered across Hyacinth's face. How could such a terrible thing have just happened? What would this do to her chances of being accepted by the local aristocracy? And _why_ was Mrs. DeVere dressed up like some sort of gamekeeper while the Frobisher woman was dressed in the sort of long skirt Hyacinth considered "proper country dress"? Then it hit her. It was country chic, of course. Obviously it's what the best people wore on their estates, in a vain attempt to look casual and fit in with "the little people."

Her attitude thus readjusted for maximum comfort, she smiled ingratiatingly and grasped Audrey's hand, earning another sharp bark from the dog. "Of _course_, of course! What a silly mistake. Do accept my most sincere apologies, _dear_ Mrs. DeVere. I recognised the impeccable breeding at once, of course." Confidentially she added, "Our sort always does recognise one another."

Audrey's eyebrows arched higher. "You don't say. Why don't you follow me into the drawing room? You can just leave those cases out here for the moment, Mr., er – yes." 

Richard Bucket, a balding, faded little man with a greying moustache and a permanent expression of patient embarrassment, did as he was ordered and followed the rest of the party into a comfortable little high-ceilinged room. The moment his foot crossed the threshold the dog bit him sharply on the ankle. "Ouch!" he yelped.

His new landlady scooped up the miscreant with a curt apology. "Naughty Brabinger!" she scolded the dog.

"Brabinger?" questioned Richard, holding his injured foot.

"We called him after my late butler," Audrey explained. "He had much the same eyebrows."

"Richard, do stop playing with the dog," Hyacinth said disdainfully. Her practiced eye measured up the room, unimpressed by everything except the French windows, also arched in the gothic fashion, and the Portland stone hearth. "Oh, what a lovely room," she lied. "I was just telling Richard before —" she gave the dog a wary glance "—before we came in that old traditional houses have a certain mystique about them that modern ones can't match. Even if they don't have the most up-to-date furnishings, they still have enough charm to quite overcome any little flaws."

"I quite agree, in general," Audrey responded, managing to keep her temper. "I've always felt that the lodge could be quite a lovely little domicile for anyone who had the money to give it the sort of care it deserves. Of course no one's lived here for twenty years, and the furniture is just some old rubbish we pulled out of the manor in the late eighties, but it _could_ be an absolutely splendid place."

"Oh, yes!" breathed Hyacinth, effortlessly seduced by the idea of this country retreat done up to fit the immaculate standards of quality people like herself and the DeVeres. "I recognised the obvious quality of the furnishings at once, of course – I pride myself on knowing a bit about quality furnishings, you know. I myself own a suite that's an exact replica of one at Sandringham House. Why, my son Sheridan could work wonders with this room. He's a _very_ successful interior designer, you know. Such a _fashionable_ occupation just now, what with all the ones you see on the television. Of course, my Sheridan has _much_ better taste, just like his Mummy."

"I can imagine."

Marjory stared at the two of them wordlessly. She was by nature inherently, sometimes gracelessly, truthful, and she'd always been amazed by the ability certain people – chiefly Audrey – had of instantaneously melding reality to suit themselves. She glanced over at the newcomer's husband, now utterly forgotten as he sat nursing his bitten ankle, and wondered briefly if he'd ever noticed this phenomenon.

Richard felt someone's eyes upon him and turned to meet Marjory Frobisher's glance with a friendly but somewhat tight-lipped smile of resignation. His expression changed to one of apprehension as he heard what his wife was saying, and he sighed as Hyacinth launched herself onto her favourite subject. He did, however, think it was only fair to point out, "Mrs. DeVere might not want you redecorating her property, Hyacinth. It is only a rental." _And knowing Sheridan, _he thought, _redecorating one room will end up costing more money than the rent._

Mrs. DeVere's mind was busily turning this to her advantage. Having the lodge redone by a professional interior decorator – at someone else's expense – might not be a bad idea at all. It would increase the property value, and the appeal to these potential tourists her husband spoke of. _Ooh, I like that,_ she thought.

Outwardly she appeared to give the matter cautious consideration. "Well ..." she answered at length, "I can't think why you shouldn't have a little work done while you're here, considering your son is in the business. Providing he has a proper understanding of what would be appropriate in a house with this sort of history, naturally. The lodge isn't as quite as old as the manor, but it does have a ... considerable history in my family."

Hyacinth sniffed indignantly. "Well, of course my Sheridan has impeccable taste. He has just as much sense of history as I do myself."

"Exactly."

The cryptic remark might have been properly construed as an insult, but Hyacinth took it as a delicate compliment. "How nice of you to say so, Mrs. DeVere," she cooed. "I knew someone of your calibre would recognise my overwhelming natural gift of understanding just what is socially and historically appropriate. I think we can safely say we're of the same mind here."

* * *

"That went even better than I could have hoped, dear!" Hyacinth declared enthusiastically to her husband the instant Audrey and Marjory left them alone. "I could tell Mrs. DeVere was impressed by my impeccable taste and breeding. Obviously I'm her class of people. I know that we're going to be bosom friends."

Her husband shook his head wearily. "Hyacinth," he began patiently. "We can't _afford_ to be bosom friends with people of that sort. We're in a completely different socio-economic level."

As usual, the calm voice of reason had absolutely no effect on her. "Nonsense, Richard. Genuine aristocracy like the DeVeres don't care about anything as vulgar as money. Why, I bet that Frobisher person is poor as a church mouse."

"So will we be soon," Richard said under his breath.

"It's _breeding_ that counts with people of that class," Hyacinth went on without hearing him. "You take my word for it."

He sighed. "All right. I'll take your word for it. But what was all that business about having Sheridan come and redecorate the lodge? It's all we can do to afford to rent the place at all, much less let Sheridan and his, er, 'partner' at it, with the prices they charge."

"Don't be silly, dear. You know he'll give us a discount."

"Bloody generous of him, considering I subsidize the business as often as not."

She put on her patient expression, the one she used whenever she thought of herself as the long-suffering martyr, bravely resolving to face whatever miseries life – and her brutal husband – might heap upon her. "Now, Richard, dear. Please don't be so unkind to Sheridan. You know it takes time to establish a successful business. Especially one so fraught with professional jealousy, and all the unfair competition from those television designers. It's the least we can do for our only child, to see that he's launched on the path of his chosen career."

"After eight or ten years of languishing at university while he figured out what that career was going to be." That, also, was said quietly.

His wife was off on another of her flights of fancy. "Oh, yes, this could be precisely the sort of opening Sheridan and Tarquin have been looking for to really get their business underway. Just imagine, Richard. The DeVeres will be so impressed by the renovation of this room they'll probably hire Sheridan to redecorate the whole Manor. Just think of it! 'Yes, we've just had the whole place redone from top to bottom. Brilliant young designer by the name of Sheridan Bouquet. He's the son of two of our dearest friends, in fact.'" 

She sighed ecstatically, paying no attention to Richard's lack of enthusiasm.

* * *

Audrey managed to make it out of the lodge and halfway down the drive before she gave in to her urge to laugh. One of the locals had once described her, somewhat uncharitably but not inaccurately, as "a big, horsey woman with a big, horsey laugh." Her lips twitched, her shoulders shook, and she finally burst out with a barely restrained roar.

"Good Lord, Marjory, have you ever _seen_ such an asinine woman?" she chuckled. "I don't know what was worse – her insistence that 'people of our quality and distinction' are always drawn together, or the constant prattling about her son."

"She does have a rather overwhelming presence," her friend agreed. 

"Congratulations, Marjory, that may be the understatement of the century. Really, I think she may prove very amusing provided she isn't constantly underfoot."

"You didn't find it all that amusing when she thought I was Mrs. DeVere."

Clearly Audrey still didn't find it all that funny. "Just another example of her social pretensions. She allowed herself to be fooled by the way we were dressed. If she could actually recognise class and breeding the way she says, she'd never be taken in by such things. And she dyes her hair."

Marjory snorted. "What's wrong with that, Audrey? You dye your hair. So do I for that matter. Lots of people cover up the grey when they get to be our age."

Instinctively Audrey's hand went up to her short, dark blonde locks. "No, Marjory. We only tint our hair its natural colour, not cover it with something from a bottle off the supermarket shelves labeled 'Russet 19'."

With a disdainful sniff to show what she thought of the sort of people who indulged in that sort of thing, she marched up the driveway while Marjory struggled to keep up with her.

* * *

Richard clumped downstairs, his feet sweltering in the stiff new Wellington boots. He felt as if he had lead weights attached to the ends of his legs. Feeling self-conscious, he stomped into the drawing room to submit himself to the royal inspection. 

When Hyacinth got a look at him she sprung to her feet and clasped her hands under her chin enthusiastically. "Oh, Richard, how lovely! Don't you look _smart,_ dear ... every inch the country gentleman. Spread your arms, dear." He obeyed, lifting the arms that hung stiffly at his sides about eighteen inches in either direction. Hyacinth circled him, mouth pursed, scrutinizing the fit and look of the clothing. Finally she pronounced it absolutely perfect. "Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. You look exactly like a member of the aristocracy. Absolutely indistinguishable."

"I feel like an idiot, Hyacinth," he complained. 

"Nonsense, Richard," his wife said brusquely. "These clothes are an exact copy of the sort of outfit worn by members of the local gentry."

"I seriously doubt the local gentry get themselves up in cheap tweed from the village shop. Not that it _was_ cheap, mind you. Do you know how much this rig cost? Besides that, I don't know how you expect me to walk about in these stiff boots."

She ignored his concerns about the expense as thoroughly as she always did, seeming not to even hear it. And she waved aside his other complaints as well, telling him merely, "The boots – we call them _Wellies, _dear – just need a little breaking in. Go and walk in the garden. Go on. I have plans to make now, shoo!" Still grumbling quietly, Richard took himself off through the open french windows which led onto the small terrace.

He'd been walking back and forth in front of the house for quite some time, with the result that the so-called Wellies weren't getting any less stiff, and neither were the new crop of blisters. Richard was just about to call it a day, go inside to soak his feet and look for a few elastic bandages, when a white Range Rover, several years old, pulled up and stopped beside him.

The driver lowered the window and stuck his head out. He was a man in his middle sixties, with a head of slightly thinning pepper-and-salt hair, fully grey only at the temples. The well-groomed moustache on his upper lip was still youthfully dark. "Hullo, my name's DeVere," he said, offering Richard his hand. "You must be Mr. Bucket. Or is it really Bouquet?"

Richard Bucket hesitated. "Well, that would actually depend on whether or not you talk to my wife," he answered. DeVere seemed to find that funny for some reason. "Perhaps you should just call me Richard."

The other man looked interested. "Oh, I say. My name's Richard as well." He got out of the car and leaned against it. "How are you and your wife finding life at the lodge so far?" he asked conversationally.

"Oh, it's very nice," the other man responded affably. "It's quite a relief, honestly. The last time Hyacinth had a fancy to try country living we ended up paying a small fortune for a converted country house flat so tiny we couldn't even turn around."

DeVere studied the newcomer's immaculate tweeds with their painfully sharp creases, which seemed quite at odds with his own limp and obviously superior quality apparel. "Really? And I would have taken you for a country man," he remarked, deadpan.

"I feel like a perfect ass in these clothes," Richard confessed. "But it's supposed to be 'country chic' or so I'm told."

"I shouldn't worry about it if I were you," the other man assured him. "My first day out I appeared in heavy brogues and loud plus-fours! I think I might have even had a walking stick." He shook his head over the memory.

His namesake chuckled slightly, just enough to be friendly. He felt slightly confused, given all the information their landlady had imparted. Emboldened by the other man's cheerful amiability, he decided to ask for clarification. "Oh ... but I thought your family had lived in these parts for centuries. That's what your wife told us when she showed us the place this morning."

_"Her_ family has. My wife's a fforbes-Hamilton – that's a name that apparently counts for something in this part of the country. I came here in '79 from London, very much the outsider. But I like it here. You come from ... Coventry, is it?"

"That's right."

DeVere nodded. "Oh, yes. Nice place. Used to do business there. Well, I'm afraid I really have to be going. Nice meeting you. Listen, why don't you and Mrs. Bucket come for dinner tonight? Around eight-ish?"

"Oh. Thank you very much, Hyacinth will be delighted. Umm – " Bucket lowered his voice and leaned in to speak to the other man confidentially. "There is one thing I should warn you about. My wife ... well, she really _does _ prefer the pronunciation 'Bouquet' for some reason. She can get a bit..." He trailed off helplessly, but DeVere seemed to understand.

"Ah, I see. I'll try to keep that in mind. See you tonight, then." With a friendly wave he got back into the Rover and moved off down the drive.

* * *

Richard DeVere found his wife in the drawing room, looking over some papers for one or another of her charities. Audrey looked up and greeted him briefly. "Hello, darling. Have a good meeting with the farm manager?"

"So-so," Richard answered. He didn't offer any further details, knowing she would insist on a full report later on, when she was less distracted. "I met the new neighbours on the way in. One of them, anyway."

"Oh? Which one? The social parasite or the downtrodden husband?"

"I haven't met the wife yet."

"If you're smart you'll try to postpone that pleasure for as long as possible," Audrey advised, her eyes on her work.

Richard looked slightly uncomfortable. He scratched absently at his moustache and answered, "Ah. Well, that might be a bit difficult, I'm afraid. I've invited them both for dinner tonight."

Audrey looked up at him with a dismayed expression. "Oh, Richard, how could you?" she asked, pained. "Quite aside from the dubious pleasure of dining with the Bucket woman, you should never make a habit of inviting guests for dinner at the last moment."

"I've always done that." 

That was true enough, and he remained completely unrepentant. According the various women in his life, inviting last minute dinner guests was one of the worst, most inconsiderate acts a man could commit. His mother had railed at him for hours, often in the presence of their embarrassed guests. Janice, his first wife, had remonstrated with him gently, behaved like the perfect hostess, and then sulked for the rest of the evening. Audrey, his second wife, gave him a long lecture, usually about the impropriety of the whole thing, then promptly forgot about it. And through all these years he continued to get away with it, because a rich man, moreover a handsome and charming rich man, tended to get his own way.

"And I've always told you not to. It's terribly unfair to poor Mrs. Beacham. She's an old woman, she doesn't like having her routine upset."

"Mrs. Beacham's our age," Richard pointed out.

"Your age, maybe," corrected Audrey. "She's at _least_ five years older than I am." 

Richard, in fact, was less than two years older than his wife, but he didn't share the sensitivity that Audrey seemed to be developing about the subject the last few years. He was in robust good health – doctor's orders about limiting himself to two cigars per day and cutting his alcohol intake notwithstanding – and he still thought of himself as a young man.

"Oh, yes, you're right, of course. That makes a world of difference."

She wasn't about to let him get her off the subject. "Besides, what if we were having chops for dinner? It would be terribly embarrassing to run short of the main course."

"Are we having chops?" her husband asked sensibly.

"No. We're having a very nice roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. It'll go round easily. But you'll have to be the one to charm Mrs. Beacham into providing extra dessert."

The lecture finished, Audrey went back to her work, looking over the contents of two folders and jotting down an occasional note on the pad in her lap. Richard puttered around the room idly for a few minutes before he poured himself a drink and took a seat across from his wife. He watched her silently for awhile until she began to show signs of irritation, then picked up the paper and perused the headlines. 

At length he spoke, without raising his eyes from the newspaper. "How many times did Brabinger bite them?"

"Hmm?"

"Brabinger. How many times did he bite the new people while you were showing them around the lodge?"

Audrey looked up in annoyance. "Richard, I don't see why you must continually jump to conclusions. Why on Earth do you suppose he tried to bite them at all?"

"For a start because that dog has always bitten everyone except us."

"I keep telling you, Corgis aren't biters. And it was only once, as it happens. Besides, he'd hardly bite us. We're his parents."

Richard was visibly amused. "I can see it now: 'Do you have any children, Mr. DeVere?' 'Oh, yes. I have a sometimes incontinent fifteen-year-old son who bites everyone he sees with the exception of his mother and me.'" he said, and they both laughed.

* * *

Hyacinth insisted on their driving the few hundred yards to the manor, saying, "Quality people don't walk, dear. They have chauffeurs to drive them everywhere. What would it look like if we simply arrived on foot?"

Her husband had tried to talk her out of it, pointing out that DeVere had been driving himself around that afternoon, and he was fairly certain their landlady had been on foot when she left the lodge, but she would have none of it. But when their host opened the door for them himself and said with some surprise, "You drove? Two hundred yards?" Hyacinth had instantly changed her tune and blamed her husband.

"Well, I told Richard it was a frightful waste of petrol, but he would insist. Always trying to take care of me, you know, save wear and tear on m'dainty feet." With that she laughed, a loud sound that echoed through the great hall with such intensity it made DeVere blink with surprise.

She gazed around the great hall in a kind of rapture. "Oh, this _is_ magnificent! What a lovely mix of Regency and Jacobean and, er –" here she faltered, unable to remember the rest of the tiny guidebook paragraph about Grantleigh.

"Georgian," suggested Richard DeVere gently.

"Oh, yes, Georgian, of course. In short, everything an old English estate should be, all still intact. I'm simply speechless." Hyacinth's idea of speechlessness, however, generally consisted of rambling on and on about the house and about what a shame it was so many of "our finest houses" were now being turned into museums or blocks of flats. 

"Why, even my dear friend Lady Kitteredge has had to open up her house to the public three times a week." 

Needless to say she didn't bother to explain that Lady Kitteredge had been elevated to the status of "dear friend" by virtue of having spoken three sentences to Hyacinth when their paths crossed during one of the Kitteredge House tours. Her Ladyship had actually _recognised_ her as someone she'd spotted on previous tours, which to Hyacinth meant automatically that her inherent upper-classness had been immediately recognisable. It had never occurred to Hyacinth that she was fairly memorable to anyone who had ever encountered her. 

DeVere, for instance, was finding her more and more memorable by the second. He seemed more amused than offended, however, much to her husband's relief. Richard Bucket turned to his host with an apologetic smile. "What's a man to do?" his expression seemed to say. DeVere merely raised his eyebrows in sympathetic acknowledgement.

Hyacinth stopped at the foot of the grand staircase, gazing up at the long gallery above with undisguised curiosity, and then climbed a few steps to get a better view. "What a perfectly elegant staircase. It gives one the feeling that this isn't one of those stately homes where all the sparkle is confined to the ground floor, and upstairs is simply..." She let the sentence dangle hopefully.

"Quite." DeVere, corralling his errant guest, felt the devil take hold of him. "I'm sure my wife would be more than happy to escort you on a tour of the manor."

He opened the door into the drawing room as he said it, making sure Audrey heard his generous offer. She looked daggers at her smirking husband, but she'd already readjusted her face into a smile, albeit a somewhat frozen one, by the time her unwanted guests entered the room.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bouquet," she said, rising and crossing to greet them, the essence of well-bred politeness. "So lovely to see you again. Welcome to Grantleigh Manor." 

Audrey was wearing heels, as she always did when dressing for dinner, and so towered over the newcomers. In fact, in heels she normally towered over almost everyone she met with the exception of her husband. She'd always used her height to great advantage, but she hadn't been expecting Hyacinth's complete lack of modesty in the social realm. Instead of being intimidated, the shorter woman simply extended her hand graciously, in an exaggerated etiquette book-approved imitation of the way she'd seen society women behave.

"Oh, yes, how _wonderful_ to see you again, Mrs. DeVere. And so soon, as well. Of course it's a great honour to be asked to dine with you our first evening here. I was _so_ pleasantly surprised to receive your kind invitation to the manor." Needless to say, when Richard had relayed the news to her that afternoon she'd told him smugly that such a thing was only to be expected and would doubtless be the first of many social evenings together.

"My husband's invitation," Audrey corrected swiftly. "You remember Miss Frobisher."

Hyacinth looked past Audrey, noticing for the first time that Marjory, belatedly lumbering to her feet, was indeed a member of the party. She frowned slightly and gave her a somewhat frosty nod. "Yes, of course. How are you, dear?" She still blamed Marjory for that embarrassing business this morning.

"Just fine, Mrs. Bucket," Marjory chirped. "How are you?"

Hyacinth froze, her whole body momentarily rigid as a fascinating variety of pained expressions flitted across her face. In a rough whisper she managed to croak a correction. "Bouquet."

"Oh. Sorry."

Richard was playing the jovial host to perfection. "Please, have a seat. Wouldn't you both like a drink before dinner?" He played bartender, then sat down on the arm of the sofa next to his wife. "By the way, darling," he said, "I told Mrs. Bouquet you'd be happy to give her a tour of the manor."

"I heard ... darling," Audrey told him through gritted teeth. "How thoughtful of you."

"Oh, it was nothing ... darling."

Marjory Frobisher watched them nervously. She'd always hated being witness to this particular game. "Darling" was generally the only pet name used between husband and wife, but when they kept repeating it like that in front of company it always meant they were trying to irritate one another.

"Oh, what fun!" she exclaimed, trying to curtail a possible squabble between her friends. "I don't think I've been through the whole place in years, myself."

"Then you might as well come along," Audrey said without enthusiasm. "In fact, why don't we all make a party of it? After dinner." She made it sound more like a command than a suggestion.

Her husband demurred, saying the manor was shown to much better effect during daylight hours, but she wasn't having any of it. If she were going to suffer, so would he. 

"Perhaps we'll see some of the family ghosts," Audrey said playfully. Warming to her subject, she began regaling her guests with ghoulish tales – made up on the spot – about some of her more unsavoury ancestors, whose spirits were said to haunt the estate to this day. 

Hyacinth, sadly, didn't seem to be frightened in the least, but she was listening with rapt attention. Apparently, according to her, only the _best_ families got to have ghosts. 

Marjory was a bit puzzled by the whole thing, as this was the first she'd ever heard about the manor being haunted. DeVere, on the other hand, knew more or less what was going on. He listened indulgently, waiting to see where she was going with this line of nonsense.

"I've never seen any ghosts since I've been here," he pointed out. "More to the point, neither did Mother and she actually looked."

"Well, then, there you go. People who actually look for ghosts never find them," Audrey replied swiftly. 

Her eye was caught by movement opposite. A small, tawny body was edging its way under the chesterfield, heading remorselessly toward Hyacinth's feet, stuffed into their too-small shoes. Inspired, she began spinning a new yarn. "Then there was my great-great-uncle Randolph, of course. Quite mad. He used to spend his later years hiding under the furniture. When visitors came, he used to grab at their ankles. Sometimes he bit them. Apparently, his ghost still has a fetish for biting people."

"Sounds rather as if Great Uncle Randolph was reincarnated as Brabinger," her husband said drily. Sliding forward onto the floor in one smooth move he grabbed hold of the elderly dog just as he was about to sink his teeth into Hyacinth's foot.

Brabinger wasn't about to come willingly. He gave a sharp yap and snapped at his would-be prey on the way by. Richard kept a firm grip on the wriggling little body and carried him out of the room to lock him away in the office for the evening.

Hyacinth shrank away in exaggeration. She hadn't figured out that her leg was being pulled rather than bitten, and seemed to regard the animal as the true reincarnation of mad Uncle Randolph.

Her husband, trying to be helpful, explained, "My wife has rather a problem with dogs."

Audrey looked distinctly disapproving; she'd always made a point of not trusting people who didn't like dogs. It simply wasn't British.

Hyacinth caught sight of her rigid expression and turned a look of pained rebuke on her husband. "Now, Richard, you don't want to give these people the wrong idea." To Audrey she said, "As a matter of fact I _adore_ dogs. The only one I've ever had a problem with is a mangy cur which belongs to my brother-in-law."

"I don't think it's the same dog, Hyacinth."

"Well, of course it's not the same dog, dear," she replied, misunderstanding. "That dog of Onslow's is a common, furry street thug, while the DeVeres' dog is obviously a fine, pedigreed ... something."

"Pembroke Welsh Corgi," supplied the hostess.

Hyacinth thought that one over, deciding it explained many things. "I've never trusted the Welsh," she told Audrey darkly.

Richard was still trying to clarify his point. "No, I mean the dog Onslow has now isn't the same dog he used to have." No one was listening to him.

A sudden realisation hit Hyacinth. Corgis were the breed of dog much favoured by the Queen. She pointed out this fact, trying to make it sound as if she was a great fancier of the breed herself.

Audrey nodded and replied, "Yes, that's right. As a matter of fact, Brabinger comes from the same breeder which supplied one or two of her dogs over the years."

DeVere returned to the room minus the dog. "I've just talked to Mrs. Beacham. Dinner's ready whenever we are."

As the party began to make their way toward the dining room, Hyacinth hung back and grabbed her husband's arm. "Richard," she whispered excitedly. "Did you hear that? The DeVeres' dog is related to royalty!"

He nodded. "Yes, it makes me feel so much better to think that I've been bitten by a member of the royal family."

He tried to keep his voice down, but Audrey's hearing was very sharp. Pausing in the doorway of the dining room, she turned and remarked, "That actually wouldn't surprise me these days." 

* * *

Conversation at dinner was desultory, roaming over numerous topics, but Hyacinth dominated almost every one of them, determined to impress. She went on at great lengths about the qualities and accomplishments of her only child, the glorious Sheridan, and for an encore she regaled her companions with glowing descriptions of the luxurious lifestyle of her sister Violet. Apparently her favourite sister lived in a luxury bungalow – a concept which strained Audrey's imagination to its limits – complete with swimming pool and sauna and room for a pony. When she wasn't monopolizing the conversation by talking about her family members, she was asking prying questions about upper class life in the Grantleigh area and simultaneously insinuating that she knew all about such things. 

The others found it quite maddening, and yet fascinating in a macabre sort of way. There was a strong temptation to retaliate by introducing strictly local topics, thereby excluding her from the conversation, but it was resisted. That sort of thing was simply not done; it would have been bringing oneself down to the Bucket woman's level.

During the first two courses she kept studying the tableware surreptitiously, pushing the food aside for a closer look at the black and gold pattern skirting the edges of the plates. Once or twice when she thought no one was looking at her she pretended to drop her napkin, using that as an excuse to bend over and tip up the side of her plate in a vain attempt to get a look at the mark on the underside.

DeVere watched the act curiously. "Is there something wrong with the china, Mrs. Bouquet?" he asked. 

Hyacinth looked up with a slightly insane smile on her face, embarrassed to be caught snooping. "No, it's lovely. Royal Doulton, isn't it?"

"No, I'm afraid not. It's only Limoges." The set had been his wedding gift to Audrey.

"Ah, well, never mind. The French seem to be taking over everything these days. And I hear some of that can be quite as good as Royal Doulton," she said outrageously. "I have the loveliest set at home, with handpainted periwinkles. Of course, most of the cups have been broken by my next door neighbour," she sighed.

"How tragic," said Audrey with genuine sympathy.

Hyacinth gave another sigh, thinking of all the things she'd had to endure in the years she'd lived next to Elizabeth. "Yes, she's got a terrible habit of dropping things. Most nervous person I've ever met. She reminds me of Miss Frobisher, rather."

Marjory was completely oblivious to any slight. "Oh, I'm never nervous at all," she said easily. Trying to work out what the similarity might be she asked, "Does she like wildlife, your neighbour?"

"Oh, I shouldn't think so, dear," Hyacinth said with a slight frown. "Her brother directs musical operettas." 

The others were amazed at this non sequitur. Before anyone could recover from their puzzlement she continued in a hushed voice, "Well, at least he used to. He's been rather ... indisposed ... the last year or two," she told them vaguely.

"We think he had some sort of nervous breakdown," volunteered her husband. He hadn't had a great deal to say thus far.

Hyacinth was quite embarrassed that their hosts should think her the sort of woman who would live next door to someone who'd had a nervous collapse. With an exaggerated smile she hurried to clarify the situation to people who couldn't possibly care less.

"Now, Richard, dear, let's not be uncharitable. You make poor dear Emmet sound like a mental patient." Her laugh, intended to sound casually dismissive, came out as a sort of nervous whinny. "It's not at all that sort of thing, really. You know how the creative temperament suffers so from nerves. A family complaint, obviously. But one can't pick one's neighbours, can one?"

"Sadly, no."

Richard DeVere came close to choking on his wine, and shot his wife a suspicious look. But Audrey was, for the most part, playing the polite hostess and declined to follow up the rather snarky comment.

Marjory, following that train of thought along a somewhat circuitous path, said curiously to the visiting couple, "You know, I don't believe I've ever heard how you came to hear about the lodge in the first place."

Hyacinth repeated the story of how she'd met the onetime rector of this parish in his current appointment at a small city church, and heard of the listing from him. "He told me," she said, with a modest laugh, "that I rather reminded him of _you_, Mrs. DeVere. He thought we had enough in common to be practically twins. Isn't that astonishing?"

Astonishing fell just short of the mark. Audrey's face froze. After a moment she recovered and shot the giggling Marjory a stern look. 

Richard, equally amused but possessed of better self control, said under his breath, "Well, that was hardly Christian of him."

"No one ever did understand his little jokes," Audrey said frostily. "I rather prefer our new rector. He's younger and more flexible, and he doesn't drink one out of house and home. I always find that important in a clergyman."

By flexible she meant, of course, that the "new" rector – he'd only been at Marlbury St. Botolphe for thirteen years, after all – seemed not to be resentful when she ordered him around and told him how things should be run in the parish, something which clearly couldn't be said about his predecessor. 

"And at least he's married," commented Marjory. She still felt an urge to laugh, but she was trying not to think about it. "My mother always said an unmarried clergyman was simply asking for trouble. Although come to think of it, we never did have any trouble of that sort with the old rector."

"Well, you wouldn't expect to, would you, dear?" remarked Hyacinth, a comment which left her dining companions positively mystified. "Of course, we have a simply wonderful vicar at home. He is married, but certain women _still_ try and throw themselves at him. I think that sort of thing is absolutely shameful. A man of the cloth and all. Mind you, I'm not absolutely certain his wife is exactly cut out to be a vicar's wife."

She then proceeded to spend the next several minutes telling everyone, in mind-numbing detail, just what an integral part she herself played in the church social functions. 

"I always have, of course – I'd consider it a breach of my civic duty otherwise – but it's nice that we can both be more active in the church since Richard took early retirement. Richard's very pleased we can spend more time together, too, aren't you, dear?"

Her husband smiled faintly in her direction. "Yes. We get to spend a lot of time together now," he answered diplomatically. He immediately felt the waves of pity coming from his dinner. 

He wanted to be friendly, and to do something nice in exchange, like get his wife off the subject of church for awhile. Somewhat shyly he asked his host, "What line of work are you in, Mr. DeVere?"

Hyacinth was mortified. "Richard, what a question, dear!" she admonished, with a rather embarrassed, deprecating sort of laugh. Trying to correct his mistake, she herself made a rather larger faux pas. "You should know the aristocracy don't _do_ anything." 

DeVere grinned. "Oh, on the contrary, Mrs. Bouquet. I think you'd be surprised at how much work is involved in running an estate this size. I certainly was," he said, catching Audrey's eye.

"Oh, yes. Running the Grantleigh estate is a full time job," she agreed.

"But to answer your question, I was in the grocery business."

Hyacinth sat blinking rapidly, her mouth pursed in disapproval, trying to assimilate the information. She had nothing at all against being in trade, provided one was successful at it, but it went against all her ideas about what the gentry was all about. "The grocery business. I see. Isn't that wonderful," she said, trying to smile.

Marjory smiled at her friends. "Oh, Richard's just being modest," she told Hyacinth. "He started Cavendish Foods, you know. Built a whole supermarket empire up from nothing."

"Isn't that wonderful!" repeated Hyacinth, in quite a different tone of voice this time. "Cavendish Foods! Why, I do all our shopping at your supermarkets, Mr. DeVere."

"Not mine any longer, I'm afraid," he corrected. "I sold out to an American concern in the early eighties, about the time Audrey and I got married. I guess you could say I took early retirement of a sort, as well – decided in my forties what I really wanted to do was be a gentleman farmer." 

Hyacinth leaned across the table, intent on impressing the DeVeres with just how much they had in common. "You know, before Richard … my Richard, of course I mean," she tittered, "took early retirement, he was a _major_ player in the financial world."

Richard, who had worked for the local borough council, seemed a bit surprised. "Well, I suppose you could say I was in finance," he agreed doubtfully. 

"So much of the financial world is based in Coventry after all," Audrey remarked. To her, anything much north of London was practically foreign territory, and the Midlands seemed a barbarous wasteland. 

"Oh, yes, of _course,_" agreed Hyacinth, completely oblivious to any sort of sarcastic intent. "His whole department positively depended on him."

A heavyset elderly woman entered the room, carrying a tray loaded with dishes of chocolate mousse. "Ah, time for dessert," DeVere said, with some relief. "After coffee we'll start off on that tour of the manor I promised you."

"I can't wait to get a look at the family ghosts," joked Hyacinth, annoying her hostess considerably by winking at her. Then she added, with apparent seriousness, "I suppose a place like this would have only the highest quality ghosts, wouldn't you?"

"Naturally," said Audrey, who was wishing fervently that those stories of hers hadn't been strictly imaginary. Maybe if the woman thought the place was haunted it would keep her out. She doubted it, though.

* * *

What seemed like hours had passed, and the excruciating dinner party was finally over. The Buckets had returned to the lodge, and the DeVeres were alone together in the drawing room.

Richard handed his wife a drink, then leaned in to press his lips briefly against hers.

"Why, Richard," Audrey said, pleased. "Whatever was that for?"

"For not being Hyacinth," he replied simply.

She gave a slight shudder. "An overbearing, social-climbing poseur? I should think not."

"No," her husband confirmed, "a poseur you are not. I suddenly feel astonishingly lucky to be married to the real thing." 

"How sweet of you to say so, Richard," she smiled, giving his hand a slight squeeze. "I'm glad that in all these years I have at least taught you to appreciate the value of the genuine article."

Any reply he might have made to that provocative statement was curtailed by Marjory Frobisher's entrance. Richard continued smoothly, as if his original train of thought had never been interrupted, "Mind you, it's the woman's husband I feel sorry for. He seems a nice enough chap overall."

Marjory settled herself comfortably into the leather sofa and accepted a brandy from her host. "Oh, I don't know," she commented, ready to believe the very best of everyone, even Hyacinth. With the kind of insight she was sometimes prone to displaying she pointed out, "You must admit, he does seem genuinely attached to her."

"Yes, attached with a lead chain," answered Audrey, with her usual beautiful irony. "I've never been able to understand what makes a nice, perfectly harmless little man harness himself to an ill-bred, difficult woman."

Richard sat back and smoothed his moustache, hiding an involuntary smile behind his fingers. He coughed once, then glanced at his wife with diffident affection. "I don't know about ill-bred, but personally I've always found difficult women to be the most interesting."

"Really, Richard!" Audrey said sternly.

* * *

Later that evening, upstairs in the old lodge, Hyacinth and her Richard were getting ready for bed. Richard pulled the covers back, marvelling at the lumpy mattress. Oh, well, after the day he'd had he felt he could sleep on anything. 

If only Hyacinth would let him. She gave a happy sigh, looking at her reflection in the mirror over the dressing table as she cold-creamed her face. "What a wonderful evening," she smiled. "Wasn't that simply the most splendid dinner party you've ever attended, Richard?"

"Very nice, dear," he answered sleepily, punching his pillow into shape and turning over on his side.

"Well, it was more than very nice, I must say. I do wish you could be just a little more enthusiastic, dear. And I was positively embarrassed by how little you had to say tonight, Richard. I practically had to carry the entire conversation by myself." She could have mentioned that every time he had opened his mouth he seemed to commit yet another _faux pas_, but she chose not to say anything. Hyacinth liked to think of herself as magnanimous.

"That's why I didn't have much to say." 

She gave no indication of having heard him. "Still, even with that little problem, I would have to call it a resounding social success. I could tell, the DeVeres really liked us. We are _in_, Richard. I shall have to have one of my little candlelight suppers and return the favour. Should I wait until after we have the lodge redecorated, I wonder? I'd better call Sheridan in the morning and get started straight away. I can't wait to tell him what important new friends we have now, he'll be so pleased."

At the mention of his son, Richard grunted and pulled the covers over his ear. 

"Such a pity that Frobisher woman had to be there tonight, though. Quite a fly in the ointment she is. Imagine embarrassing me this morning by pretending to be Mrs. DeVere. I suppose I'll be forced to befriend her as well. It's obvious she's nothing a poor hanger-on, cashing in on her old school friendship. Poor Mrs. DeVere is obviously just too polite to give her the heave-ho."

Her husband pulled the covers off his head. It wasn't doing any good anyway. "She really didn't strike me as particularly polite," he remarked.

"_Nonsense_, Richard. The aristocracy are always unfailingly courteous to their underlings, that's why she tolerates that little spinster hanging on. If there's one thing I do detest, it's a hanger-on."

She wiped her hands carefully, then took off her dressing gown and climbed into bed next to him. She turned off the light and lay on her back in the darkness, a wide grin spreading across her face. "Oh, yes," she sighed. "I can tell it's going to be a _magnificent_ summer!"


	2. Redecorating the Lodge

**Author's Note: **_Thanks, everyone, for the nice reviews! Sorry for the long wait -- most of this was actually finished some time ago, but my room was far too cold this winter to sit freezing in front of a desk puzzling out html codes. Hope it's been worth the wait. The third and final installment has yet to progress beyond the note/outline stage, but it will be along eventually, I promise! _ ** -- L.H., April, 2004**

**Part Two of Three: Redecorating the Lodge**

Richard and Audrey were having morning coffee together on the terrace, as they often did when the weather was fine. They sat in companionable silence sharing the _Times_, he the business section and headlines, she the society and nature columns. 

Occasionally they shared snippets of news.

"I see Lord Cranmer's finally died," Audrey said. "I shudder to think what his son's going to let happen to the estate."

"Mm," murmured Richard abstractedly. "Listen to this," he said suddenly, and proceeded to read aloud snippets of an editorial praising the benefits country had already heaped from the EU.

Audrey was appalled. "How _awful,_" she said dramatically.

"Awful?" her husband responded impatiently. "Look, Audrey, globalization is inevitable whether you like it or not. It just makes good business sense."

"Well I _don't_ like it," Audrey sniffed. "The Common Market was quite bad enough, and now we're supposed to just submit to being swallowed up by the great anonymous mass that is Europe. It completely undermines Britain's economy and cultural heritage. Honestly, Richard, the whole country's going..."

"...to rack and ruin. Yes, I know," he finished for her.

"Precisely." The couple relapsed into silence.

Richard glanced up as he turned a page. He lowered the paper with a sigh that just missed irritation. "Hullo, someone's coming," he said, with a note of warning.

"Mm?" Audrey looked up from Lord Cranmer's obituary and gazed across the well-manicured lawn. "Oh, Lord, it's the Bucket woman. What on earth -- is she wearing hunting pink?" she gasped, as the stocky little form drew closer.

"In the first week of summer?"

The DeVeres scarcely had time to exchange bemused looks before she was upon them.

"Good morning!" chirped Hyacinth. "I hope you're both well after that lovely dinner party last night. I just thought I'd pop over and thank you once again for inviting us."

DeVere gave her his most charming superficial smile. "Good morning, Mrs. Bouquet. Lovely morning, isn't it?"

He toyed with the idea of doing the polite thing and offering her a cup of coffee, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Neither, apparently, could Audrey.

"Oh, yes, indeed," she beamed. "I was just thinking while I was having breakfast that it would be a lovely morning for a ride."

"Oh, you ride, do you?" Audrey asked disbelievingly.

"Well, naturally!" lied Hyacinth. After all, didn't all the best quality people ride? "And hunting, too, of course. Oh, yes, Richard and I are absolutely _mad_ about hunting, but of course living in a city it's not always easy to get as much of the sport as one prefers. My sister Violet manages more often than I, but then her husband is a terribly successful turf accountant. Very in with the horsey set."

The outfit, in fact, was one she'd borrowed from Violet just before she left, although it had taken some doing. They'd had to smuggle the habit out of the house while Violet's husband Bruce was at work. Bruce might be successful, but he had certain odd personality quirks ... namely an extremely possessive nature where his wife's clothing was concerned. He preferred to wear it himself. It goes without saying that Hyacinth chose not to enlighten the DeVeres about this particular family secret.

"As much as I hate to intrude on your _generous_ hospitality," she continued, "I simply _had_ to find out how soon I could expect to go fox hunting. One of the reasons I wanted to come to the country." She smiled ingratiatingly.

"Really," Audrey responded shortly. "Perhaps you should have come to the country during hunting season."

Hyacinth blinked. She coughed to cover up her embarrassment, and said, somewhat nervously, "Oh. Yes. Of course. Well, I told you I was a bit rusty."

DeVere smiled, and almost took pity on her. The woman did ask for it, but he knew first hand what it was like to be on the receiving end of Audrey's icy sarcasm. "Actually, even here in the country we don't get to hunt as much as we'd like."

"No," agreed his wife. "The hunt saboteurs have virtually shut down the hunt around Grantleigh the last few years."

"Rather a pity," added her husband. "Just as I was starting to get the hang of it."

Audrey gave the other woman a sudden, gracious smile which made Richard immediately suspicious. "Of course, if you simply want to ride I'd be more than happy to show you around the estate on horseback, Mrs. Bouquet. Shall we say Saturday morning, after breakfast?"

Hyacinth agreed enthusiastically, but not without a certain amount of private trepidation.

"That was vicious of you," Richard said when she left.

Audrey adopted an air of slightly wounded innocence, but there was a gleam of mischief in her eyes. "Whatever do you mean by that, Richard?"

"She doesn't look like a horsewoman to me."

"No, she doesn't, does she?" smiled Audrey.

Hyacinth changed clothes once again -- this time to a very respectable tweed suit which actually _did_ blend with her environment -- and set out on foot for the village shop, nearly a mile away. Apparently, according to Audrey and Marjory, it wasn't considered worth the effort locally to get the car out for the short jaunt to the village. And after last night's gaffe of driving to the manor, she was particularly anxious to get everything right.

In spite of her claims to the contrary, Hyacinth was decidedly _not_ used to the country life, and by the time she finished the "short jaunt" she was huffing as much as if she'd just run a marathon. Her feet, mercifully clad in sensible shoes, felt that way as well.

The bell tinkled out its ancient and toneless rhythm as she stumbled into the shop. The caretaker, a gaunt woman in her fifties, looked sharply at the purple-faced newcomer, a mixture of alarm and annoyance in her expression. A total stranger collapsing in her shop might be bad for business. Her mother hadn't put up with that sort of thing ruining her profits, and Mrs. Patterson's only daughter had no intention of standing for it, either.

"Hi! You there, are you quite well?" she demanded of Hyacinth.

"Certainly," Hyacinth puffed, straightening her posture and reaching up automatically to smooth her hair. With the best approximation of a dignified, affable smile she could manage, she announced, "There's nothing like a good, vigorous walk to keep you fit. That's what I always say."

The woman behind the counter merely grunted disinterestedly now that the newcomer seemed to be recovering. Hyacinth closed on her. "I am Mrs. Bouquet," she announced. "Mrs. Hyacinth Bouquet. I shall be spending the summer at Grantleigh Manor Lodge -- that's on the DeVeres' estate, you know -- and I would like to arrange for daily delivery of newspapers and two pints of milk."

A notepad was produced from under the counter. "How d'you spell the name?"

"B-u-c-k-e-t," replied Hyacinth.

"Right," said the shopkeeper, making notes on the pad. "Two pints milk and newspapers to the old lodge for Mrs. Bucket."

Hyacinth blinked in irritation. "No, it's pronounced Bouquet," she corrected. "Oh, yes, and there are one or two other little matters. Since this is a farming community, I would like to know where the milk comes from."

"Cows," the woman answered promptly, biting back a laugh.

Hyacinth looked pained. "But are these _local_ cows?" she persisted.

"Well, they just come from Milton's Dairy, up the road."

Hyacinth chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Ah. I see. Perhaps I should just give the manager a ring and ascertain whether or not his cows are of the best sort. I brought with me my set of Royal Doulton with the handpainted periwinkles -- although of course my home is equipped with a very expensive alarm system -- and I'm sure you'll agree that fine china such as that deserves only the very _best_ quality milk."

The storekeeper could only blink at her.

"And, of course, that would give me a chance to ask him to make certain I receive my own bottles back again. I don't want bottles that have been used by all and sundry. Who knows what sort of people have been drinking out of them?"

"Have you ever thought of using these, dearie?" asked Miss Patterson frostily, as she held up a two-pint plastic container. "Just toss them away when you're done."

Hyacinth was delighted with the idea. "How clever!" she exclaimed. "What will they think of next?"

The other woman frowned. Taking the milk question as settled finally, she inquired, in a tone heavily laced with sarcasm, "And will there be any special instructions about the newspapers, ma'am? Would you like them ironed before they're delivered to prevent the ink rubbing off on your hands, for instance?"

Hyacinth was fumbling in her pocketbook. "Oh, there's no need for that sort of thing," she replied, missing the hostility completely. "I'm not a fussy person. Now, there are one or two other little things my husband forgot to pick up when he was in yesterday. You know how forgetful husbands can be."

Miss Patterson slapped the pad down on the counter in irritation and jerked the proffered list out of Hyacinth's outstretched hand. "Not ... off ... hand," she spat, enunciating every syllable with a venomously cold precision.

She was the embittered variety of spinster. Any suitors she might have had when she was young had been frightened away by her old dragon of a mother, whose personality was being replicated in the daughter more and more with every passing year. Some of the locals were even beginning to refer to her as _Mrs._ Patterson, so thorough was the transition.

Hyacinth wondered vaguely why the woman seemed a touch out of sorts, but simply put it down to the shopkeeper being a rather "low" sort of person and therefore prone to that sort of thing. She immediately put it out of her mind in the sheer joy of watching Miss Patterson assemble the shopping into her carrier bag. This sort of personalized service made her feel _very_ important.

The bag was slammed down onto the counter. "Will that be all?" Miss Patterson demanded shortly.

"Oh, yes, I think so," mused Hyacinth. "For today, anyway. Although my son is joining us next week -- he's a very _famous_ interior designer, but he still makes time to join his mummy in the country for a few weeks -- so I'll be popping in then to pick up a few of his favourite treats. Only the finest for my Sheridan. I expect we'll be your very best customers while he's here."

That held the promise of money, and Miss Patterson changed her tune immediately. She summoned an affable smile, and her voice when she replied was positively servile. "Oh, well, you could hardly do less, could you, Mrs. -- what was the name again? Bookay, that's right. You just let me know if your boy wants anything special, and I'll be sure he gets it. That's the sort of personal touch you get here; wouldn't get that sort of service in one of them supermarkets, that's what I always say."

Her customer beamed at her. "Absolutely! I suppose the anonymous chain stores are well enough for ordinary folks, but for people of distinction I always feel there's nothing more appropriate than a personal touch. Although," she said confidingly, "I'm certain if Mr. DeVere at the manor was still running his supermarket it would be quite an exception to the rule."

Miss Patterson huffed. "That's as might be," she said doubtfully. "But I'll tell you one thing, though. He might have owned his own grocery chain, but he did _his_ shopping here." She gave a decisive little nod. "Many is the time me old mother special ordered cigars for him, or any other little thing he might want."

"Oh, then you'll know just what the DeVeres like," exclaimed Hyacinth delightedly. "I expect to be entertaining them quite frequently, you know. My husband and I dined with them at the manor last night; doubtless the first of _many_ such social occasions. Mr. DeVere was kind enough to stop by to personally invite us. Just the sort of behaviour you'd expect from such a perfect example of the well-bred British gentleman."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" the storekeeper snorted. "Amazing how he can pull it off, with _his_ background."

"Heh?!" Hyacinth twitched. She blinked rapidly several times. "What d'you mean, _his_ background?"

Miss Patterson narrowed her eyes. "Came here from Poland or Czechoslovakia or someplace like that, didn't he? Well, I just figured you'd know all about it, you being such a close personal friend of the family and all. His mother barely even spoke a word of English ... not so's you could understand, anyway. Nice old lady, though. Just a bit ... strange. Nobody ever could figure out what her last name was supposed to be, but it wasn't DeVere, that's for sure.

"And the stories they used to tell about him! Used to be rumoured that he was into all kinds of nasty things, gambling and fraud and who knows what. All hushed up, though. Some even said he was some sort o' Bluebeard, hiding out here from the police after he killed his first wife. I don't reckon there can be any truth to that one, though," she allowed regretfully. "He's been married to Mrs. fforbes for twenty years, and if there's any wife a man might want to finish off, it'd be _her."_

The effect on Hyacinth was remarkable. The blinking intensified and she began to twitch. Her mouth fixed itself into a smile of frozen horror. "Ah ... yes ... well ... hrm," she stammered. Without another word to her new acquaintance, she picked up her bag and stumbled toward the door, still shaking her head in horrified disbelief.

She almost collided with Marjory Frobisher, who was coming through the door as she reached to open it.

"Oh, good morning, Mrs. Buck — " Marjory started to say the dreaded name, then stopped herself and overcorrected, " — Mrs. Bucky."

"Good morning, dear," Hyacinth said absently.

Marjory stared open-mouthed after the retreating figure. How very odd! A mistake like that and she hadn't even flinched. Oh, well. Marjory dismissed it with a shrug and turned her attention to her own shopping.

The shopkeeper had a slightly malicious smile on her face, but then she often did.

"I do wish you'd reconsider, Hyacinth," Richard pleaded with his wife.

It was Saturday morning, and Hyacinth, a black sweater topping off the breeches and riding boots of her borrowed outfit, was clearing the remains of their breakfast off the table. Richard hadn't quite finished with his, but at the moment he was more interested in trying to talk her out of her plans for the day.

"You remember what happened the last time you tried to ride a horse," he reminded her.

She refused to listen. "Oh, don't be so fussy, Richard. Obviously the sort of animals the DeVeres would own would be capable of recognising when a person of quality and breeding is riding it, and reacting accordingly." She stopped suddenly, remembering the gossip she'd heard recently. Did they even _have_ horses in Czechoslovakia? Or Poland?

"They all have instincts," he persisted. "They can tell when the person riding them has no idea what they're doing. Horses can sense fear."

The telephone rang. Hyacinth picked up the receiver and answered in her usual fashion. "The Bouquet residence," she trilled. "The lady of the house speaking."

"Really?" There was a distinct touch of frost in Audrey's telephone voice. "And I always thought it was Grantleigh Manor Lodge." Hyacinth, rendered momentarily speechless, listened as her landlady gave curt instructions to meet her at the stables in half an hour. Apparently, the well-bred horses didn't care to be kept waiting.

Audrey's horse was precisely the sort of animal you'd expect to find occupying the stables of a stately home; an aristocratic dappled grey gelding, sixteen hands or more. In a way Jason resembled his mistress: tall, trim, and solid, with a hint of well-controlled aggression.

The same could be said, in a decidedly less flattering way, about the bay mare allotted to Hyacinth, but only in that she was short and round. Queen Mab's placid temper bore about as much resemblance to her rider as her physical appearance resembled her namesake fairy queen. She was the smallest gentlest, and oldest occupant of Grantleigh's stable, and thus the only one Audrey trusted with an obviously inexperienced rider.

For all that, Hyacinth eyed the little cob with suspicion. Queen Mab didn't look like her idea of a horse. Surely, a horse's temperament had everything to do with _breeding_, didn't it? This animal might appear outwardly gentle, but it certainly didn't look like the sort of thing a person of distinction would ever be seen riding. The magnificent grey, on the other hand...

The magnificent grey turned his big head, and snapped his big teeth in the direction of Hyacinth's shoulder. She backed away quickly, falling against the bay mare's side, as Audrey moved her horse out of range with a stern rebuke.

Hyacinth tried to make light of it. She straightened up and said with a nervous laugh, "I see your dog isn't the only animal around here that bites."

"Jason doesn't like to be kept waiting, that's all. You _do_ know how to mount, don't you?"

"Oh, of course, of course," Hyacinth responded breezily.

Face screwed up in concentration, she managed to hook her left foot into the stirrup on the third attempt. With one hand gripping the reins tightly, and the other gripping the edge of the saddle, she tried to heave herself upwards. The enterprise was harder than it looked.

After Hyacinth tried once again -- without success -- Audrey cleared her throat. "You risk kicking the horse in the head if you mount that way," she pointed out. "Not to mention you'll end up riding backwards. Not precisely the most picturesque view of the estate." She laughed.

Eventually Hyacinth managed to mount, with the help of a large bucket, and the two women set off on their tour of the estate. She wobbled from side to side alarmingly.

Audrey led the way across the fields. Hyacinth watched her easy grace, the way she and Jason blended almost seamlessly into one, and tried to copy everything Mrs. DeVere did.

After a moment, it occurred to Hyacinth that she was forgetting to post. She gave it a try, bouncing wildly up and down in the saddle with her usual degree of overcompensation.

Audrey looked around in genuine alarm as the other woman almost bounced herself out of the saddle. "Mrs. Bouquet..." she started, then gave up with a sigh.

"Just a bit rusty," Hyacinth excused herself.

Audrey looked dubious. "If you insist." With unaccustomed tact she suggested, "Since you are out of practice, you might want to take everything slowly at first."

By the time they reached the lake, Hyacinth had stopped her manic bouncing in the saddle, but she was still listing back and forth like a ship caught in a gale. Audrey stopped watching her, at the risk of feeling seasick.

"Oh, what a pretty lake," Hyacinth said, her voice shaking with the vibrations of the ride. "It puts me in mind of sailing. My husband's absolutely mad about sailing, you know," she lied.

"Really?" responded Audrey, feigning interest.

Hyacinth nodded. "Yes. He developed an interest in all things nautical after he retired, and of course it really became a grand passion after our little trip on the QE II. Have you ever been on the QE II, Mrs. DeVere?" she asked.

"More than once."

"Oh, how fortunate for you. We had a _lovely _time on our cruise. Unfortunately, Richard lost his bearings on the way, and we ended up having to go all the way to Denmark to meet the ship." She paused thoughtfully. "Or was it Norway? I honestly can't remember. One of those poky little Scandinavian places, at any rate. Wherever it was, it was a dreadful inconvenience, of course, but the way I look at it, at least it was a chance to see a part of Europe we've never seen before. Makes a change from the usual Paris, Rome, Madrid and so on."

Audrey did the woman a disservice in assuming she was lying. She mightn't be able to resist the opportunity to present herself as a consummate world-traveller but she actually _had_ been to all those capitals -- once. Audrey herself had spent a great deal of time in the usual watering holes, enough to have actually acquired the ennui to which Hyacinth pretended.

"Oh, quite," she admitted. "It's an excellent idea to get off the beaten path once in awhile, if only to avoid the tourists. One should familiarize oneself with the rest of Europe -- it builds a greater appreciation of England."

"You're so right, Mrs. DeVere," fawned Hyacinth. "Even eastern Europe has a certain exotic appeal. For instance, I've never been to Czechoslovakia, but I've always found it absolutely _fascinating,_ haven't you?"

"Not especially."

"Really? How odd." She relapsed into silence for a few moments, while Audrey eyed her with sudden suspicion.

Hyacinth tried again. "Oh, yes ... I wouldn't mind holidaying there once. I hear the people are _very_ nice. Almost English, you might say."

Audrey gave her a slightly sour look, her suspicions having blossomed into full-blown certainties. "I wouldn't," she said tersely. While Hyacinth was busy trying to regroup, she added, seemingly apropos of nothing except a non sequitur, "How did you like our little village shop, Mrs. Bouquet?"

Hyacinth didn't immediately realise she'd been caught out. She blinked in surprise at the abrupt change in conversation. "The village shop? Quite charming, I thought. Genuinely picturesque. I understand the woman who runs the place is quite an old friend of the family."

Audrey snorted. "Not my family," she said drily. "One can hardly help knowing everyone in the area, of course, but there are inevitably different levels of association, if you understand me. And I'd take everything Eva Patterson says with a _very_ large grain of salt."

Hyacinth was delighted. To her mind, this completely acquitted Richard DeVere of all charges of being a foreigner, and anything else of which the shopkeeper had accused him. Czechoslovakian -- how ridiculous! Anyone could see the man was as English as his own wife.

"I rather got that impression," she said. In her anxiety to let her new acquaintance know whose side she was on, she leaned toward Audrey and lowered her voice in confidence. "And if you don't mind my saying so, Mrs. DeVere, I found she was a _bit_ too inclined to gossip, in my opinion. A very _common_ habit."

Audrey was about to voice her agreement when Hyacinth leaned just a little _too_ far over and almost came off the horse. She only managed to save herself by catching hold of Jason's hind quarters, which didn't precisely sit well with the big grey. Audrey was obliged to move him several feet away before he calmed down.

They rode on for a while longer, with Audrey pointing out various points of interest on the estate. Eventually they came to the road which would lead them back to the homestead.

"Let me show you our church while we're here. Of course, I assume you'll be at services tomorrow, but one never has time to appreciate all the fine points on a Sunday."

They circled round toward the front. Graves were nestled thickly throughout the little churchyard. A surprising number of tombstones, of various degrees of antiquity, seemed to belong to members of the esteemed fforbes-Hamilton family.

Audrey stopped her lecture on the history and architecture of the building to point out in passing her father,

**

Edgar fforbes-Hamilton  
1908-1971  
Tally ho!  


**

her grandfather, whose epitaph was largely obscured by a sizeable urn, totally sans flowers, and so appeared to read merely,

**

ilton 

**

and her late husband,

**MARTON ffORBES-HAMILTON  
1931-1978  
GONE TO GROUND  
R.I.P.**

Hyacinth, somewhat surprisingly, didn't mention the coincidence of the common surname (engendered by Audrey having married her first cousin). She was too impressed by the statue of the somber knight which stood guard over Marton's grave. What a wonderfully upper class touch!

"And this is Richard's mother over here," Audrey was saying.

Hyacinth's ears pricked. This should settle the matter once and for all. Eagerly she followed the pointing finger to the face of the marble headstone. It was on the large size, to accommodate the full name.

**

Maria Jaroslava Vladimira  
Martinka Polouvicka  
1904-1989  
"Mrs. Poo" 

**

In shock, Hyacinth dropped the reins and almost slid off the back of the horse. She grabbed the front of the saddle in a desperate attempt to save herself.

Sadly for her, there's not exactly a lot to grab onto with an English saddle.

After the riding debacle, Audrey had felt an obligation to see Hyacinth home safely, and then of course it was only polite to accept her invitation to stay for morning coffee. So here she was, in the drawing room of the lodge, stuck. Somehow, she always felt vaguely uncomfortable in her old home.

In all the years since she'd been back at the manor where she belonged, she'd only been here a handful of times. Given that, it might seem odd that she'd procrastinated all these years about selling the place, but in truth, she'd never had any offers. Richard had a theory of his own, claiming that Audrey had spent so much time spying on him while he owned the manor she'd become paranoid, and couldn't stand the thought of having neighbours close enough to do the same thing to her.

Hyacinth, still limping a bit, interrupted her train of thought as she wheeled the drinks trolley through the door.

"Here we are," she sang. She lowered herself, rather gingerly, onto the sofa next to Audrey, the tray positioned just in front of their knees. As she poured, she told her guest with a chortle, "At least I know I can trust _you_ with my Royal Doulton, Mrs. DeVere. Ha ha."

For one startled moment, Audrey wasn't sure whether she should feel complimented or insulted. Then she laughed good-naturedly. "Yes, I should think so."

"I knew I wouldn't regret bringing it with me. And it's doubly fortunate, as my Sheridan's arriving tomorrow. Obviously he can't be expected to eat off the second best china."

"How nice for you," Audrey said politely, sipping her coffee. "I was just thinking this room could really stand a bit of redecorating."

Hyacinth beamed at her. "Oh, yes, and my Sheridan's the very best. He's such a _talented_ interior designer; I'm happy he didn't waste his talent as a quantity surveyor, the way his father wanted him to. He has such a vivid imagination it would be an absolute _crime_ to hide his talents. I always wanted him to be an architect at the very least, or perhaps a poet."

She went on and on talking about Sheridan -- Sheridan this, Sheridan that, Sheridan would be arriving with his "staff" -- until Audrey thought she would go mad. And then, for an encore, she pulled out seemingly _dozens_ of little photograph albums, all featuring the great and glorious himself.

By the time Audrey had seen Sheridan's life -- or at least the first dozen or so years of it -- unfold before her eyes, she could feel the said eyes beginning to glaze over. Her motto had always been _noblesse oblige_, drummed into her from infancy, the nobility, her kind of people, had a duty to put up with all kinds of unpleasant things with unfailing politeness, simply because it was the proper thing to do. And throughout her life, she'd done it. But this, she thought, was asking a bit too much, even for a fforbes-Hamilton.

At length she realised Hyacinth had said something which clearly required some sort of answer. "Pardon?" she said, rousing herself.

"I said, you don't have any children yourself, do you, Mrs. DeVere?" Hyacinth repeated.

"No," answered Audrey, managing with some difficulty not to add, "Thank heavens."

Hyacinth shook her head sympathetically. "Oh, that is too bad. I always feel so sorry for childless women. They'll never know the joy of having produced a son like Sheridan," she sighed. Then with a self-satisfied smile she added, "Of course, those are very rare, so I consider myself doubly blessed."

"Perhaps not everyone is quite deserving of the honour," Audrey replied smoothly.

Hyacinth inclined her head graciously, as if she'd received a delicate compliment. "How lovely of you to say so, Mrs. DeVere. But still, I think there's nothing in the world sadder than those middle-aged childless women who waste all their affection on lapdogs, don't you?"

Needless to say, she had forgotten all about the existence of Brabinger.

But Audrey hadn't, and the tactless barb hit altogether too close to home. She bristled, and said angrily, "The only thing worse, I feel, would be the sort of overzealous mother who dotes continually upon her grown child."

This comment sailed straight over Hyacinth's head. She agreed wholeheartedly, then pulled out another album full of Sheridan's pictures.

"Did you have a nice time in London?"

Marjory looked at her friend in confusion. "Well ... looking after my aunt didn't really give me much time for recreation," she answered.

Audrey nodded as she remembered why Marjory had been gone for the last couple of weeks. "Oh, that's right. How is the broken leg -- or whatever it is that elderly aunts are forever breaking?"

The two women were sitting together on the terrace, enjoying a leisurely cup of tea in the warmth of the July afternoon. Small puddles of water were dotted here and there on the flagstones (it's to be hoped they were the product of the recent rain, rather than of the dog snoozing under Audrey's chair), and the whole estate had a fresh, clean scent from the recent rain. The weather had been dark and threatening for most of the past week, but today the sun was shining, as if to welcome Marjory home.

"Mending as well as can be expected. But I will admit, it came as quite a relief when she was able to be on her own. It's good to be home. How are things at Grantleigh?"

"Marvellously restful," smiled Audrey.

Marjory scoffed. "Restful? With all the stormy weather about?" She'd arrived at her cottage last night, and already she'd had a full report of the storms from six different people -- seven counting Audrey.

"Oh, who cares about a little thunder? The Bucket woman's son has arrived and he's taking up all her time. We've had a positively glorious fortnight free of her company."

"Lucky you," came the reply. "She caught me on my way up the drive and dragged me inside for a look-see. I say, have you met Sheridan yet?"

"Mercifully, no. Tell me the worst."

Marjory leaned closer to her old friend and lowered her voice. In a slightly awed tone she confided, "I don't think he's quite heterosexual."

Audrey seemed less than thunderstruck. "I think it would be a miracle if he was," she responded. "Growing up with a mother like that."

Marjory allowed herself to become sidetracked, which was a far from uncommon occurrence. Frowning, she argued, "I believe psychologists are beginning to discredit that theory these days."

"Bah," huffed Audrey. "Psychologists! It's all a bunch of pish-posh psycho-_babble_ if you ask me. I don't know why you all insist on hanging on their every word."

"Hanging on whose every word?" asked Richard, coming outside to join them. He smiled at their guest. "Hullo, Marjory. Welcome home."

She beamed at him. "Richard! What a sight for sore eyes."

He took the cup his wife handed him without looking at her, and sipped from it before inquiring politely, "How was your trip? I hope your auntie's feeling better."

Marjory sighed. "Oh, she is, she is."

"That's good. It's nice to have you with us again."

Audrey had had just about enough of this social chit-chat. Ostensibly, Marjory had got over her little crush on Richard many years ago, but in Audrey's estimation, any woman who encouraged too much friendliness between her husband and her best friend was a fool. "Marjory was just about to tell me what the Buckets have been doing to the lodge," she interrupted.

"Was I?" Marjory asked, puzzled. "Oh, yes -- well, Sheridan is definitely making some changes."

"Is that good or bad?" her friend asked dubiously.

"You know, I'm not certain. First off, the woodwork is all painted sort of an off-white --"

"Well, that sounds harmless enough," interrupted Audrey.

"And the walls are what he calls eggplant."

Audrey shook her head in disapproval. "There's no such colour as eggplant, Marjory," she scolded. "At least not in this country. If you mean aubergine, say so. The Americans may have taken over everything else, but British vegetables are sacrosanct."

"Quite so," snickered the ex-grocer. She ignored him.

It was then that the meaning behind the words finally penetrated and she belatedly realised what Marjory had just been telling her. "Do you mean to say they're painting _my_ drawing room _purple?"_ she howled. "That lovely old room where I spent nearly three years of my life?"

"And hated every second of it, as you never ceased to remind us," remarked Richard smoothly.

She turned on him. "That's not the point, Richard. I still _own_ the damn place. And for those upstarts to go and paint it some gauche colour without my permission is absolutely criminal."

He shook his head. "Ill-advised, perhaps, but hardly criminal. You did give them permission to redecorate," he reminded her.

"But not to paint the place purple," she protested. "Especially not some American paint colour called 'eggplant' for some unknowable reason." She sat back against her chair angrily and blew a strand of hair out of her face in irritation.

"I think they call it that because it tastes rather a bit like eggs when it's cooked," mused Marjory irrelevantly. Audrey shot her a hateful look, which served to get her back on track post haste. "Sorry, Aud. Oh, and I didn't tell you about the flowers. Enormous baskets full of artificial flowers of every description. I've know idea what they plan on doing with those."

Audrey stood up, her face set in her most determined expression. "Neither do I, but I intend to find out," she announced decisively.

Her husband took hold of her wrist. "Audrey..." he warned. "Now, I don't want you going barging in over there in this state, causing trouble. At least calm down a bit first, you'll be in a much better position for tactical diplomacy."

"Diplomacy!" she hooted. She pulled her hand roughly out of his and looked down at him with a glare he felt clear through his skin. "How dare you, Richard! I would have thought after all these years you would have discovered that you can't order me about."

Richard rolled his eyes heavenward. "Oh, good Lord. _Believe_ me, I know the folly of that." His wife seemed at least somewhat appeased, so he stood and gathered her hands into both of his. Ordering her might be useless, but he fancied his skills at manipulation were still as good as ever. Quietly he said, "No, Audrey, all I'm saying is that it might be to our tactical advantage to assess the lie of the land, as it were, before going over there and declaring open warfare."

Oh, yes, that was the right tactic, he could see it immediately. Her anger was starting to come off the boiling point. His use of the word "our", thus effectively declaring himself an ally, had been an excellent choice. They'd always tended to fight less with one another when they were confronted with a common enemy.

"Tactical advantage, eh?" Audrey looked thoughtful. "That's not a bad idea, Richard. Now what's become of those old field glasses, I wonder?"

As she went stomping into the house, Richard raised his eyebrows at Marjory, who looked as if she wasn't quite sure what had just happened. "Well, we won't hear the last of this for quite some while," he predicted with a heavy sigh.

The longer the interminable decorating project went on, the more Richard Bucket was finding it increasingly necessary to take long, frequent walks. For once, an idea of his had met with great approval from his wife, who insisted it was the very best thing for his health. She'd pointed out, quite unnecessarily, he wasn't getting any younger and besides, _everybody _walked in the country. He suspected the real reason for her enthusiasm was simply a desire to get him out from under foot, an urge most likely fostered by their son and his ... er, partner.

It was during one of these walks when he encountered Richard DeVere, leaning against the rail of the little footbridge across the stream which separated the lodge from the manor's rose garden. He was dressed for outdoors, wearing one of the jaunty little caps he favoured, and alternately breathing in deep draughts of fresh air and smoke from his expensive cigar. He didn't seem to have a care in the world. Hearing himself hailed, he turned to greet his neighbour with an affable smile.

"Pleasant day for it," Richard Bucket observed as he stepped onto the bridge.

DeVere lifted the cigar and took another puff. "Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, it is. There's no better combination than a good cigar and a place to enjoy it without someone to tell me I shouldn't. I'd offer you one if I had it at hand."

"Oh, that's all right. I'm not really supposed to smoke."

"Neither am I, actually," answered DeVere. "Doctor's been after me for years to give it up entirely, but so far I've only agreed to limit myself to two per day. But now and again I like to sneak an extra one or two."

The other man smiled knowingly. "And I gather you prefer to keep that fact from your wife." That was something he could relate to.

DeVere shook his head. "Not quite. Audrey doesn't fuss me about my health or anything like that, but I do think it's good for a man to have a few secrets from his wife, provided they're harmless. Preserves the mystery."

"I don't think Hyacinth would approve of mystery in our marriage."

"No, I don't suppose she would," observed DeVere ruefully. He gave his companion a look of quiet sympathy and asked, "How are the renovations at the lodge coming along?"

Bucket's face showed the strain he'd been under. With a heavy sigh he confessed, "Quite honestly, I don't know. I mean, I've _seen_ those home decorating programmes my wife keeps talking about, and they only have 48 hours. Sheridan's been at it for a fortnight and the room's still a shambles. And you won't believe what Sheridan and Tarquin are doing to the place."

"We've heard a few details," the other man admitted. "Aubergine and cream, is it?"

"I believe Sheridan calls it 'eggplant'."

DeVere laughed. "Hardly a culinary delight either way."

"No. And I'm afraid Mrs. DeVere's not going to like it very much. After all she said about the history of the place. It seems a bit ... modern."

"Yes," said DeVere slowly. "I admit, Audrey's not a great believer in 'modern'. She'll come round, though, in the end. After all, she did give you her permission to redecorate, if it comes to that. Not much she can do about it."

"Still, I don't like the idea of making waves."

His landlord could well believe that. He wondered if the man had ever made so much as a slight splash in his entire life. "I shouldn't worry about it if I were you," he soothed. "Audrey's bark is worse than her bite ... although her bite is rather like the dog's." The other man didn't seem terribly reassured by that statement. "Tell you what, I'll walk you home and take a look at the place, then give you my honest opinion. Although personally I don't see how it could look much worse than it did the first time I saw the place."

"I'd appreciate that. Thank you."

They stepped across the bridge and strolled leisurely down the drive, gravel crunching beneath their feet. Mr. Bucket's voice carried back through the air. "Mind you, I still don't understand the reasoning behind spending two weeks redecorating a place we're only going to be in for six..."

The two men heard the sound of voices raised in anger issuing from the open french windows before they reached the lodge. They glanced at one another in alarm and increased their pace, heading straight for the source of the problem.

Sure enough, Audrey and Hyacinth stood toe to toe in the drawing room, engaged in a heated confrontation. Hyacinth's shrillness contrasted oddly with Audrey's louder, deeper voice. Just for good measure, Brabinger the dog stood on the sofa, head raised in a wrenching howl. Neither man could make out what they were saying above the din. Audrey seemed to have something clutched in her hand.

Both ladies noticed the arrival of the newcomers at the same instant. They both exclaimed, "Richard!" in the same outraged tones.

"Yes?" both husbands answered simultaneously, but no one was in the right frame of mind to find it the least bit funny.

Each woman began to complain loudly to her own husband, although it was still nearly impossible for anybody to be understood properly. Realising that intercession was imperative, both men tried to make peace in their own way: Bucket quietly and ineffectually, and DeVere diplomatically and decisively.

"Hyacinth," pleaded the former, "won't you please calm down and tell us whatever's going on here."

"I'll tell you what's going on, Mr. Bucket," said Audrey furiously, not bothering to make the slightest attempt to pronounce the name in the approved fashion. Before she had a chance to tell him anything she was interrupted by Hyacinth's screaming correction, _"Bouquet!"_

The shouting broke out afresh. DeVere, fed up, put finger and thumb at the corners of his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle that cut through the bedlam and stopped it dead. The others turned to stare at him with expressions of shock.

"All right, that's enough," he declared forcefully. "You're both grown women, there's no call for this sort of thing. If this keeps up we'll never find out what's happened. Now will someone, quietly and calmly, please tell us _what the bloody hell is going on!"_

His wife frowned. "Richard, I hardly think there's any need to take that tone," she said with perfect serenity. "And may I just point out the fact that I was _trying_ to tell you when this woman interrupted me. Just _look_ at this place."

He looked. To his slightly less prejudiced eyes, it seemed to have at least a degree of potential underneath the chaos. The old inglenook fireplace and all the woodwork, including the wainscoting, were painting a milky white colour which approximated that of the existing furniture ... or at least it would have done, had the furniture not been covered in burnt orange slipcovers. The dark purple paint on the upper part of the walls and the ceiling had a certain inherent elegance, although the freeform chain of artificial flowers running all over the wall certainly did a great deal to diminish its positive aspects. The drapes were the same dusky orange as the slipcovers, and someone had put down a new rug covered in abstract, semi-squares of royal blues, reds, and oranges. He rather liked the rug, actually.

He said non-committally, "Yes. Well. You were going to tell us what happened," he prompted.

Audrey sniffed. "That's right. I simply walked down to the lodge to pay a friendly, neighbourly visit, that's all." she said innocently. "I found the place deserted when I walked in —"

"Without an invitation," Hyacinth put in.

"I don't need an invitation, I own the place!" snapped Audrey.

The other woman observed, under her breath, "Well, housebreaking doesn't seem particularly well-bred to me."

"Pardon me for pointing it out, Mrs. _Bouquet,"_ Audrey said icily, "but breeding is hardly something you're _likely_ to be able to recognise, in spite of your pretensions."

Hyacinth gasped and raised a hand to her chest, staggering back against the side of an orange chair. For a moment at least, she was stricken silent.

DeVere closed his eyes on the unpleasantness. "Go on," he said wearily.

Audrey continued her narrative. Apparently, she had come in to have a look round while everyone was out and had been so utterly horrified by the sight of those dreadful flowers looped about the room that she had taken matters into her own hands and begun ripping them off the walls. When she got to that part she opened her clenched fist to show a handful of flower bits, which she let fall dramatically to the floor.

The others had come in and caught her at it, of course. One of the designers had dared howl at her, which is not something one generally tended to get away with where Audrey DeVere was concerned. She first assumed the upstart to be Sheridan, but he turned out to be the partner, Tarquin. "It's almost impossible to tell those types apart, anyway," she added. Fortunately Hyacinth, assuming she meant "creative types", took the remark as a compliment rather than the insult which might reasonably be construed.

Upon learning the identity of the real Sheridan, she had treated him to one of her lectures about what was and was not proper decor in a house of this history and vintage. Audrey had been quite amazed when the young man reacted by bursting into hysterical tears.

That alone would have sufficed to put Sheridan's "Mummy" on the warpath, even with someone she so desperately longed to impress, but Brabinger had felt the need to get in on the act at that point as well. The old Corgi, never the most stable personality at the best of times, had been upset by the tension in the room, and the sound of Sheridan's sobbing had sent him over the edge. He had reacted by taking a bite out of Sheridan's hand, whereupon Sheridan ran out of the house, pursued by Tarquin.

Hyacinth came suddenly back to life when she heard that. "Has that animal had its shots?" she demanded hysterically.

"The dog has, I've no idea about Sheridan," replied Audrey.

That riposte left Hyacinth spluttering, and DeVere heaved a sigh. "Look," he said reasonably, "it's obvious we're not going to settle anything while everyone's in this state. Darling, I realise you have every right to be upset, but please, why don't you go home and we'll sort it out later when everyone's feeling a bit better."

Audrey remained unconvinced, but she was placated a little. He promptly ruined it, however, by adding diplomatically to Hyacinth, "It was unquestionably rude of my wife to do what she did, Mrs. Bouquet, but I do think you might have consulted us. However, I feel certain we shall be able to find a compromise to suit everyone when we're all in shall we say a slightly better frame of mind." He topped that off with one of his most charming smiles, which instantly won over Hyacinth, if not Audrey.

The latter harrumphed, picked up Brabinger off the sofa, and made for the exit. She stopped abruptly when she got a whiff of her husband's clothing. "You've had your two for the day already," she chided irrelevantly, and swept through the door.

Richard shook his head slowly. He was in for a great deal of unpleasantness when he got home whether or not she chose to hold him in contempt, and he wasn't looking forward to it.

His namesake looked at him in amazement. He'd never seen anything like it. As he opened his mouth to speak, furious barking erupted outside.

Hyacinth was through the door like a shot. "Sheridan? Is that you, darling?" she called. "Mummy's been so frightfully worried. Did that beast hurt you?"

"How do you do it?" said her husband admiringly. "I thought we were in for a devil of a time. No one's ever squared Hyacinth like that before. And how do you stand up to a powerhouse like Audrey without her running you over?"

"I'm not the sort of man to be run over," DeVere said simply. Then, realising he might be giving offense to someone who clearly _was_ that sort of man, he added, "That's just the sort of people we are, I suppose. Audrey and I both enjoy a challenge; it's part of what attracted us to one another in the first place. We're balanced adversaries."

"Doesn't sound like a very peaceful way to live," his neighbour said dubiously.

"No. There's not always a great deal of peace and quiet." But his smile seemed to indicate he had few regrets.


End file.
